Death in the Haight by Ronald Tierney

the Huntington Hotel. Dark wood, green leather on the stools and chairs, and leaded glass was around for the turn of two centuries.
    â€œBuy you a beer?” Lang asked before he saw that Vanderveer was nursing a glass of something stronger in front of him.
    â€œHave no use for it. If you’re going to drink, drink something real or don’t drink at all.”
    â€œI thought you by-the-good-book Christians had strict rules against the consumption of alcohol,” Lang said, sitting on the stool next to the man from Grand Rapids.
    â€œWe do,” he said, sipping his Scotch. “I’m in San Francisco, though, the land of murder, drugs, kidnapping, and illicit sex. My sin is definitely minor.”
    â€œNo drugs, murder, and kidnapping in Grand Rapids?” Vanderveer didn’t answer. “You miss it?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œMichigan.”
    â€œI’d rather be there, if that’s what you mean.”
    â€œYou have a big place, don’t you?”
    â€œYes. I grew up there. It was my father’s home, my grandfather’s as well.”
    â€œWoods, lake.” Lang wanted to test the truth of his Google Earth tour. “I bet it was great growing up there.”
    â€œWonderful place to grow up. Fishing. Hunting. Autumn. The air. The smell. Yes, you knew there was a God. How else could that world have come about?”
    Lang ordered a shot of tequila, which he sipped in the silence.
    â€œWill we get him back?” Mr. Vanderveer asked.
    â€œIf I were forced to put money on it, I’d say no.”
    â€œThen why are we doing this? I’m just throwing away a million dollars—worse, giving it to some undeserving . . .”
    â€œYou have to do it or you couldn’t live with yourself. Maybe we can get a line on the kidnappers, some glimpse, some piece of the trail to follow. We have nothing now. Maybe we find Michael or we find the person to punish.” Lang wasn’t sure the man was listening. Wouldn’t blame him if he weren’t. “I’m obliged to tell you the police will be at the stadium tomorrow afternoon.”
    The man nodded, looked away.
    â€œThe Vanderveer furniture business died on my watch. The name means little anymore, and less and less as the years go by.” He took a sip. “It should have been something the boys carried on.” There was a long silence. “I’m not complaining. I have more than I need, perhaps more than I should. But of course that’s not the point.”
    â€œBetter save some brain cells for tomorrow,” Lang said.
    â€œI’m not sure I have much use for them anymore,” Vanderveer said. He turned on his seat so he could face Lang completely. “You’re not a religious man, are you, Mr. Lang?”
    â€œNo. Guess not.”
    â€œHow do you do that?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œGet through the day without belief in God.”
    â€œGotta get through the day whether there’s a god or not.”
    Â * * * 
    Tomorrow would be an important day. Lang wanted the hours before bedtime to be hours of escape. Buddha was giving his roommate the ‘I don’t know you’ punishment for being gone so long. Even fresh food and water didn’t warm up the atmosphere. Lang didn’t blame him. Buddha’s world was limited to four walls and a high ceiling. Having a human wandering the space offered at least some entertainment.
    Lang was relieved that he didn’t have to cook, which also meant that there would be no need to clean up the kitchen. He could coast through the evening with a good movie, a slice or two of cheese, and some spirits, and drift off to sleep and face a do-or-die day when he woke up.
    The problem was that his cluttered mind didn’t permit him a smooth descent into sleep. He couldn’t figure out how the kidnappers were going to do it. It was brilliant to pick up the bonds at a sold-out baseball game.